


Of Assumptions and Half Truths

by bendy_quill



Series: Moon and Stars [1]
Category: Blades of Light and Shadow (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:20:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23900716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendy_quill/pseuds/bendy_quill
Summary: A heavy silence hangs between them and a sensation claws at his throat. Call it a sense, or a hunch as the humes call it—his eyes flit back to Ashala’s and what he sees could bore through his entire soul. Lay him bare and strip him of everything he is for the simple sake of it. He knows it is more complex than that but he exists not to reveal these truths to her.
Relationships: Tyril Starfury/Main Character (Blades of Light and Shadow), Tyril Starfury/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Moon and Stars [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1722727
Kudos: 2





	Of Assumptions and Half Truths

Eyes follow everywhere he goes. 

Used to be different, or so the elders say. Humes didn’t always have run of the land the way they do now. It was the Old Blood that built the ivory spires of Whitetower, that sowed magic within the soil and communed with the very earth. The libraries held more stories than what the humes were able to steal after the fall. Scavengers, the entire lot of them—and they’ve the audacity to stare at him as if he doesn’t belong. Parnassus, Yodlin, and every city in between—it was his people that built these lands. And it was the scavengers that sought to profit off the blood still cooling on the earth following the tragedy. 

Eyes on him doesn’t bother him as much anymore. He’s impossible to ignore and it is in part by design. Humes are always so confident when they shouldn’t be. He corrects that behavior with a look, with his gait, and with carefully hissed words. A lot of the scavenging comes in the form of thieves and robbers, folk that would take coin from their own flesh and blood if it meant acquiring something that doesn’t belong to them. 

Eyes on him is a given. He understands that now. 

He tears a bit of his rations off and chews quietly. Stale bread again until the party reaches the next city along the way. Hume cuisine is rather quaint compared to what the Citadel serves but it fills his achy belly nonetheless. The crackle of flames is pleasant at the very least. So too is the quiet that it fills and the lack of distinct chatter from the other humes. The long haired fool sleeps heavily and the sheltered priestess sits tucked inside of her tent. Tyril’s eyes cut across the darkness and flame where the lowlander sits staring right at him. 

Ashala Venralei, or so she says her name is. 

He’s known many an elf like her in the stony city of Undermount—skin as deep and smooth as the cloudless night and eyes that blaze a bright gold. Something teems within her, perhaps a latent magic or the draw of the Old Blood within her. More prominently is the haughtiness and the daring. 

Tyril bites off more of the awful bread and refuses to shift his gaze. A series of emotions plays across her face as she daintily dips her spoon into the filth she dubs a “stew” and consumes the contents. Whatever benefit he could’ve gained from having another of his kind near is lost upon that very person being the most arrogant and self-centered creature he’s ever laid eyes upon. Every bite of his bread stirs a rage within him and all she does is calmly eat her slop. 

When she finally sets her bowl down, he braces. 

“Unclench your jaw, fool,” she says far too evenly. “Surely a well traveled wanderer has seen far more disappointing elves than I.”

His eyes twitches but he knows better. “I will not be riled by you, lowlander. There is nothing about you that is worth my anger.”

She cackles. 

“So bold of you to believe your anger is worth anything in the first place.” Ashala sits up and fiddles with the folds of her skirts. “Nothing pleases the prince. Not food, not a word—” She arches a brow, “—certainly not a person. Mayhap the prince would enjoy himself a bit more if he were to let go of this icy front. The cold and brooding act is hardly effective.”

“Perhaps the lowlander would love to see another of the people forget all that they are,” he snaps back. “Speak nothing of my plight and assume nothing of my motivations—I was not born to forget the tragedy that befell my people.”

A heavy silence hangs between them and a sensation claws at his throat. Call it a sense, or a hunch as the humes call it—his eyes flit back to Ashala’s and what he sees could bore through his entire soul. Lay him bare and strip him of everything he is for the simple sake of it. He knows it is more complex than that but he exists not to reveal these truths to her. 

“The prince bid me not to assume anything of him, yet there he sits assuming things of me,” she says, lips quirking just a bit. “You claim it was a tragedy that befell your people but not mine. As if mine made the choice to be lost amongst the many humans that fill this land.”

“We have kept to the true ways, so it makes them my people,” he answers. “What you have been denied—” His gaze falters and his eyes turn towards the ground. “The Undermount has always been there. Some of the elders lived before the fall and could tell many a story about it. I won’t be held accountable for your lack of initiative nor will I be forced to give over the histories to one as impudent as you.”

An owl cries out in the midst of the night, a gentle sound that splits the quiet between the two of them. Her face doesn’t change yet the mood shifts so clearly. To be of the people yet to be so different in everything they are—what does the fall truly take from them? Dignity? A sense of being?

Humes scavenged every bit of the histories they could find. The magic, the knowledge, their stories—even their children. Tyril glances at her again and it almost disgusts him to know the truth of her upbringing. Sending her to the Undermount was a choice that could’ve been made. 

“I hate you,” she hisses. His ears prick but neither of their expressions change. “You sound exactly the way I expected one of your lot to be. There’s no such thing as unity amongst you—the only thing that matters is your lot holding the histories tight to your bosoms while the rest of us are left to wander.”

“You know nothing.”

Her smile is dispassionate. 

“It was not my choice to be this way.” 

Ashala rises up to full height. The fire pops and crackles steadily. A glance down and her face pulls tight. Familiar tendrils of natural energy stir all around him, skittering and crawling towards the woman bidding them to gather in the palm of her hand. She reaches down into the flames and licks of it curl around her outstretched limb. Longer still does she hold her hand in the fire and more powerful are the flames as they wrap around the length of her. 

When she pulls her hand away, the limb is alight with flames embedding in her skin and forming familiar patterns. He was taught by the foremost scholars within the Citadel. His eyes narrow as she pulls more natural energy and turns the flame engulfing her arm blue.

“The Undermount has always been there,” he repeats. 

“And there is full guarantee they would accept a lowlander amongst their ranks?” she challenges. The flame shifts, slithering to the center of her palm where she molds it into a ball of bright light. “I am not naive like—” She throws a glance towards Nia’s tent and chuckles. “I could never afford to be. Survival serves as the point of my focus and, yes. If it means finding kinship amongst humans, I was more than willing to allow myself the connection.”

“And you’ve never once sought your way through to the Undermount? Did you not wish to know anything?” he asks. 

Ashala levels him with a calm expression. 

“I’ve always heard the stories from human mouths. What assumptions I built had to come from them, not because I wanted them to but because no one from the Undermount sought to correct such views,” she responds. She approaches him slowly and his body tenses. The all black clothing she wears swallows her entire being. She moves as precisely as a void, consumes all that wanders in her path as she goes. Ashala takes the spot next to him on the log and her eyes lock on his face. “You are the first I have ever seen.”

He doesn’t look at her. “I know.”

“You seem arrogant much like the humans describe—far too willing to make assumptions and even less willing to extend courteousness towards those that share not a drop of the Old Blood,” she says. Ashala pauses for a moment. “Despite that, I know that the humans who cared for me know little. They do not understand what it is like to be me, to see so many faces unlike mine and to know that our histories are not the same.”

Tyril snorts. “And you believe I am closer to you in that? I know nothing of what it’s like to be you either.”

She shrugs. “But we are the same in one way that I am not with them. Surely you understand the pain of not knowing all of it at once? Surely you see that I find you intriguing for more than the veneer you put on?” 

Heat tinges his cheeks.

“I will not be used to fuel a fantasy,” he says and frowns at her laugh. 

“Then regale me not with a fantasy, but with a truth that the humans do not know,” she offers. “Become not a teacher. Stay always the brooding man you are. Allow me a single truth and I swear to ask for nothing else.”

The quiet that passes between them is so profound, he cannot bring himself to acknowledge the whisper of the wind or the scurrying footsteps of the critters darting through the brush. Nothing about her is deserving of these stories. Everything about her is so far removed from the truths lying deep within the limestone paths of the Undermount. He slowly turns towards her, eyes boring deep into hers and body drawn stiff. 

They say nothing to each other for a long time. He feels nothing in him for an even longer time. 

Ashala sighs and looks to the sky—to the heavily cratered moon. 

“There were three.”

Her brow rises but she keeps her eyes trained on the glowing body sitting high in the sky. 

“I don’t believe that,” she says. 

“The ichor spread throughout the land, submerging all in rot and death,” he continues. “Their shadows billowed from within their armors but it was not just the Court that pushed out the physical manifestation of their corruption—it was entire armies, entire fields of soldiers, creatures, and magicks that bled deathly smoke and corrupting ash. Their terror held tight within the hearts of millions and their presence could be felt by the unfortunate thousands still remaining.” She finally looks to him and he leans closer. “Their shadows could be seen for miles.”

If he stirs her, he isn’t certain. If he strikes fear, he will likely never know. 

Ashala doesn’t move, doesn’t bat an eyelash. Her hands are folded neatly in her lap and her golden eyes remain steady on him. 

“When they razed the lands, their smoke and shadows cast heavy over the land. Entire cities would be consumed and entire villages became forgotten in their midst. There was little to hold onto, little that the light could touch and that could cast back their horror. Many simply gave in to the Shadow Court and sacrificed their lot in exchange for a seat amongst the horde. There wasn’t an atrocity that wasn’t worthy of committing. ‘Desperate’ is so kind a word to use to describe the fear gripping all.

“And in spite of that, in spite of the creep of death and the threaten of oblivion looming over everyone—there were three moons.” He nods towards the half eaten moon. “We call her ‘Gallius,’ the Unmoving. When the armies of the Shadow Court marched through the lands, Gallius and her sisters watched calmly over the masses. Thousands died staring up at her splendor. Some begged them for answers, many others cursed them. But would you believe there were those that looked to the sisters for guidance?”

Ashala’s lips part and his eyes dart to them. His jaw works.

“Why?” she asks. “Why the moon? What could it possibly offer?”

“Because Gallius and her sisters shined through the darkness that eclipsed all,” he says, eyes rising to meet hers again. “The Court…their shadows blotted the sun and stole from us the light. Their calling of death and destruction stole the security daylight brought. The Shadow Court took darkness, a natural part of our being, and they used it to oppress us. However, in the dead of night and through the pillars of smoke, the moon and her sisters shone their light down upon us.

“We had no moon goddess. We did not worship the night. But in the most desperate of our times, we found ourselves fascinated with that which the Shadow Court used as a weapon against us. Daylight became our bane for we could see the shadows encroaching and the armies marching towards innocent cities they had yet to level. Daylight meant we could see the horrors as they came and the inevitable demise they would bring. 

“However, in the night, the shadows were no different. Their bodies melted into the backdrop of the abyss. Their movements slowed immeasurably. And through that darkness was Gallius and her sisters sitting high in the sky, their light guiding us and their quiet shining upon us even as we lay dying before them.”

Ashala says nothing for a long while, her expression contemplative and her eyes much warmer than before. Her lips part again and Tyril schools his features carefully. 

“Why are there no longer three moons?” she asks. A smile tugs at his lips. 

“Because Gallius swallowed her sisters.” Ashala’s shocked look draws a laugh from him. “Most humes don’t even know this—it is as I said, we never had a moon goddess nor did we worship the night. Gods are tricky things, but give them enough power and they can be molded—born anew. Humes believe in giving of material things in exchange for that blessing or power. They know little of what it means to hold faith, to pour life, blood, and soul into the powers that become the forces that keep watch over us. 

“Gallius was the name she accepted. Gallius was the unmoving. Gallius was the light that the shadows could not claim. Gallius was simply a thought and became so much more despite it all. We sought her in death, cursed her in life, and we gave our blood in the hope that we’d be worthy of something we didn’t even know we were searching for when it all came to an end.” He leans back and takes a deep breath. 

“You mean to say…” Ashala shifts her gaze between him and the moon. “The people created their own goddess? From the three moons?”

“Gallius is a goddess of a unique sort,” he says. “The scholarly humes at Whitetower paint her truth falsely. They call her the ‘elven goddess of hope.’” Tyril rubs his knuckles on the soft material of his pants. “She is no such thing. She is so much more than that. She was the last thing we laid our eyes upon when the shadows of death came to claim us.” His ears twitch and his fists curl tight. “She was the ‘unmoving.’ She was the reminder we needed when all had been lost and despair was all that remained. She did not serve the purpose of hope—she was certainty…that which bled through the smoke and would always find us. We pray to her not for hope, but for clarity.”

“How would you define her?” Ashala asks. His lips twitch at the curiosity embedded all throughout her tone. “If not a goddess of hope, what is she the goddess of?”

He doesn’t answer for a long time. That which sets them apart makes them the same, it seems. 

“Truth.” Tyril rises from his spot and moves around the fire. Ashala’s eyes bear down on him. It is difficult to avoid her sight, much like it is difficult to dodge the light of the half eaten moon. “We did not want to accept our fate but we could accept what was certain. Death claimed many, horror wracked us all—” He turns back towards her and, for a brief moment, there is a softness in their shared expressions; a truth they have been so reluctant to share, “—and in spite of what we knew, we continued on.”

“Why this story?” she asks. “Why regale me a tale of a goddess that reigns over truth?”

A wisp of wind whips through the camp, stuttering the fire and sending a chill down his spine. 

“Maybe…some of your assumptions need to be corrected.”

Heat floods him as a coy look slowly twists her face, golden eyes travel the length of him slowly and he tries to ignore the uncomfortable fire stirring in his belly. 

“Hm.” Is all she says.


End file.
